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Poem	As we are so wonderfully done with each other We can walk into our separate sleep on floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood lies oh my love, my golden lark, my soft long doll Your lips have splashed my dull house with print of flowers My hands are crooked where they spilled over your dear curving It is good to be weary from that brilliant work It is being God to feel your breathing under me A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning..... Don't let anyone in to wake us
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